


And So It Goes

by LittleSammy



Category: NCIS
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-14
Updated: 2012-07-14
Packaged: 2017-11-09 22:13:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/459039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleSammy/pseuds/LittleSammy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternate reality, based on the prompt <em>"Tony & Ziva first meet when they're old"</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	And So It Goes

**Author's Note:**

> About a month ago, my dearest [Fina](http://fafarinn.tumblr.com/) suddenly hit me with a story prompt out of the blue. It's most certainly not a topic I'd usually go for, because it's (usually) not the kind of story I like, so at first I looked at it and said, "Yeah, right". But then my mind started wandering, and my muses bounced all over the place, and suddenly they threw this elaborate back story at me. Which kind of forced me to write this after all.
> 
> It's bordering on sappy (think Nicholas Sparks), but I still like this "what if". And since this is actually my 100th Tony/Ziva story in two and a half years... yeah, I think I can live with a little sap. ;)
> 
> The prompt was _"Tony & Ziva first meet when they're old"_. (Although I cheated a bit -- "Kill Ari" did happen in this universe.) No spoilers, obviously, since the NCISverse as we know it never happened. ;) Written mostly to the tunes of Mr. Billy Joel, particularly "Lullaby", "Light As A Breeze", and the one this story's title is snatched from. :)

He has to admit, he likes coming to Gio's. It's not something he would have expected, say, twenty years ago, when he was still busy with getting a grip on life in general. But people change (he sure learned that one the hard way), and at some point his weekly visits to the small trattoria have taken on a certain quality he no longer wants to miss in his life. They are his way of winding down and easing into a weekend now, and maybe it's just another thing that shows his age, but by now he feels like he depends on that silly little ritual of two extra-creamy caffè latte and a piece of Mama Carita's apple pie, accompanied by a bit of crowd watching.

And that in itself is a pretty rewarding activity here. It's a mixed bag of customers at any given time, and today is no different: young couples on a non-committal first or second date (not in the phase where they hold hands yet because that's when they start going to other places), mothers and housewives, who sometimes bring their kids and sometimes just try to get a tiny break from them, and the inevitable writers with the pretentious notebooks, who may or may not be cranking out a bestseller right now, while Anthony DiNozzo is watching them. (Although he would probably never find out, unless it's scandalous enough to hit the press big time. He's still not too fond of the illusions of the written word.)

It's his first time on a Sunday, though, and the faces are not the ones he's used to. (Apparently he's not the only one with rituals.) He waves amiably at Gio, whose actual name is Ronald, but since that wouldn't work too well with the image he's selling, he... adapted.

The only table left is outside, and it's a bit chilly for Tony's taste. He still takes it, because he craves his apple pie by now and because this is one of these days where he feels unsettled enough that he needs something familiar to ground him. His thumb brushes against the base of his ring finger, and when he notices, he flexes his hands in annoyance. It unnerves him more than it should -- his inability to stop doing this when, in theory, he should have no problem letting go. He's worn the ring for a year after Donna's death, out of respect, but in truth it had shocked him how easily he had adjusted to her not being there. And to his surprise he found that he missed the ring more -- the official symbol of order, stability and someone who cared.

He wasn't used to being on his own anymore.

He smiles at the waitress, who brings him his latte before he even has the chance to order 'the usual'. She's a pretty young thing, blond and curvy in just the right way. (He knows that's not the reason Gio hired her, but he still can't help noticing it. He's not _that_ old yet.) She returns the smile and meets his eyes for a moment, and then, just like that, she suddenly lowers her gaze and blushes in a delightful way. When he thanks her, the blush deepens as if he had just asked her out, so he glances to the side and pretends to ignore her reaction.

She started doing that a few weeks ago -- acting as if she has a crush on him -- and it confuses him. He was used to this kind of reaction when he was much younger, but now, smack down in his sixties? He's not sure where it's coming from all of a sudden. (Or maybe it's not that sudden. Maybe he only started noticing it now.)

It's flattering, yes, and when he looks in the mirror he sees someone who could have aged a lot worse. But she's still younger than most of his daughters, and one of his unspoken goals in life has always been to never follow in his father's footsteps. So all he ever does is smile back at her without putting too much effort into his flirtation.

*** *** ***

The woman catches his eyes easily, and even though it's just for a moment at first, he soon finds that his gaze keeps drifting back to her. He's intrigued. He's not sure why. Maybe just because she's this eerie pool of quiet in the middle of bustling energy and animated conversations -- she's so lost in the book in her lap that she hardly notices the waitress bringing her order. Maybe it's because she reminds him a bit of the late Audrey Hepburn, though, with the dark turtleneck, and the slim build, and the dark brown hair she has tied back to a loose bun low in her neck. There are streaks of grey in her curls, but her skin is still smooth, which makes her look younger than she probably is. He likes the hint of a tan. He wonders if it's her natural color or just a little too much autumn sun. Could be both, with her complexion.

The sun catches on her necklace, and that's when something clicks in his mind. Pieces of a long-forgotten puzzle, by now covered in dust and debris of a whole lifetime.

She flips the pages the wrong way.

Her hands are slim, but strong, and even though he has lost some of his touch over the years, he can easily tell that her whole body is like that. She looks like she is in training of some kind. Martial arts? Or maybe a dancer. That would explain why he feels like he knows her. He hunted his fair share of them before... well. Before he started having a normal life.

He's startled when she suddenly looks up and stares straight at him as if she heard his thoughts loud and clear. Her lovely brown eyes narrow while she holds his gaze, and he's not sure what exactly the message in that look is. But he has to admit that his heart beats a little faster all of a sudden, and that's kind of unexpected.

He puts down his cup and smiles at her, but she doesn't react and doesn't lose her focus. It's also not quite what he expected, just in a totally different way. He's not sure why, but he wouldn't have minded a blush on her.

Eventually she breaks the connection and goes back to reading, and Tony is on his feet and halfway to her table before she is all the way back into her own little world.

It's not what he does these days. He's not that desperate for a pretty girl's attention anymore that he hunts them down until they give in, like he did in his youth. But still, there's a nagging sensation that tells him he can't let go of this one that easily. Because there's more to her than just a piercing glance.

"Hi," he says and goes for another of his most winning smiles. "I know this sounds like a bad cliché, but have we--"

"No." 

His charmer's smile is wasted on her because she doesn't even look up. She flips another page, and her necklace moves against her skin, catching more sunlight. Star of David. David. _You're Israeli?_ He blinks while something in his mind stirs. Something he buried a long time ago.

She raises her eyes while he's still staring at her. Her eyebrows draw together this time, and he knows that in a heartbeat she'll throw an annoyed question at him, or maybe just tell him to get lost. He knows that once she opens her pretty mouth, more memories will rush to the surface. He's not sure he really wants to deal with them, though, and so he takes a slow breath and steps back carefully.

"Excuse me. My mistake."

Her gaze rests heavily between his shoulder blades while he makes his way back to his own table. He feels ten years older suddenly, and his heart pounds uncomfortably. He has to fight the memories she stirs in him, hard. He's not ready to deal with them, after all. Give it another thirty years, then yes. Maybe.

She's too much like him, though, and so she doesn't give it a rest. She keeps staring at him because her curiosity is tickled now. He can see it in the way she eyes him and how the Hebrew book lies forgotten in her lap. He's not all that surprised when she ends up at his table in return, staring down at him. She hasn't connected the dots yet. He can see that, too.

"We _have_ met," she states now. There's a slight frown marring her forehead, and it deepens when Tony just nods, but doesn't elaborate. "How?"

He doesn't want to spell it out. He really doesn't, because once he puts it into words, it will come back, just like that. All of it. All the things he tried to bury for such a long time. But she keeps looking at him with that weirdly demanding expression, and it's a bit like his father's stare was. He can't really fight it, and in the end, he raises his chin and meets her eyes.

"You were a control officer back then," he says, and her eyes widen a little, as if that was the last thing she expected. "And your protégé had just killed my partner."

He can see the exact moment she remembers him. Her expression doesn't show it, but the sudden paleness still gives her away. "Of course," she forces out, and for a heartbeat he regrets saying it. "The cocky Italian." She nods at him. There's a stiff note to her posture now, and Tony is quiet while he watches her retreat. (And it is just that, a retreat -- careful, but not organized.)

She goes back to her book and tea, but he can see that her mind is all over the place now, much like his own, and after just a few lines she lowers the book again and stares off into the distance. Her mouth curves when she raises a hand and her teeth start to worry the edge of her index finger. There's a slight tremble to her hands, and it confuses him that she's so obviously disturbed by a reminder of her past. Back then she didn't faze as easily. 

She blinks when he puts down his cup at her table and then sits down without asking. A mix of confusion and vague annoyance flits across her face, but Tony pretends he doesn't notice. (That's always been one of his best talents, bending reality.) He raises his cup to her, smiling in the way that he can already tell gets under her skin a little, and yes, her brows draw together once more while he plays it cool and takes a sip of his latte. 

"I am not interested in catching up on the past," she finally states. Her gaze flicks away and then back to his mouth. She's not quite as immune to his smile this time, but there's still a chill in her expression when she meets his eyes again.

"Who says I'm here for the past?" And that's it, he thinks. That's the chill melting away gradually until she just looks at him, confused and a tiny bit intrigued. "The present offers much more interesting subjects, Miss... I'm sorry. Is it still 'Miss'?"

Her eyebrow quirks up in something that almost passes for amusement. "Yes," she replies and tilts her head. "But you are married, apparently."

He doesn't have to follow her gaze to know what gesture gave him away. "Was," he says curtly. And that's all there is to it, really. No need to elaborate on things that are no longer.

For a moment it seems as if she wants to throw a sarcastic remark at him, but then she deciphers his expression, and just like the urge rose in her, her face closes down again and she lowers her eyes. "I'm sorry. That's not really any of my business, is it?"

He has to think about that. The question confuses him, because yes, in a way she's right and she doesn't need more than chitchat. But the weird thing is, he doesn't really mind. Quite the contrary, actually. It feels like she _should_ know some of the things that happened after she turned his life upside down. (And he knows that's not really fair, since she wasn't the one responsible. But still.)

"Why, Miss David, I think we can safely classify that as part of the past, too, right?" He shrugs and then smiles at her some more, and in the end her carefully guarded expression eases up, little by little, smile by smile. "Can I interest you in a piece of possibly the best present day apple pie the East Coast has to offer?"

*** *** ***

The funny thing is, despite their best intentions they do end up talking about the past after all. They start off at the point where they both still had something in common and then slowly work their way through the things they both don't really want to touch, but don't seem to have a choice. He's thoroughly baffled because his mind can't compute how a former Mossad assassin would end up being a ballet teacher. She's just as confused when he confesses that shortly after Kate's death he quit NCIS and teaches college basketball these days. (It's his last year on the job, though, and he's not sure yet what he'll do with his life once he retires.) They both hesitate to touch the true reasons for the changes except that they needed them and their old jobs no longer cut it. Neither of them would go as far as admitting that the incident that let them meet the first time also destroyed something in both of them -- something they never really managed to patch up.

So, yes, they sort of touch the issue and sort of skid around it at the same time.

Relationships are even harder to talk about, especially for her. She's stunned when she learns that he's the proud father of five daughters -- the walking, talking Italian cliché, as he calls it. She squirms when he asks about her family in return, though, and for a while she just stares off into the distance. A few minutes and two topics later she tiptoes back and admits that she has a daughter, too. Only she hasn't seen hers since the girl turned sixteen and ran away after a particularly nasty fight between them. He feels bad for even asking after that, but before he can apologize, Ziva shrugs and says with a wry, somewhat fake smile that this is probably why teaching ballet works out so well for her: other people's kids don't need to agree with her methods, as long as the results are there. 

At one point she asks him about his wife, and he's not really sure what to tell her. He gets the impression this baffles her even more than the kids -- the fact that he was not only married, but almost twenty-seven years to the same woman. 

The cute waitress takes their plates away eventually, and the piercing glare she throws Ziva amuses him, somehow. (He only notices it because it's even better to see Ziva stare the girl down. She still knows some of her old tricks, that much is sure.)

He orders another latte, and she wants another tea, and while they wait, a strange silence settles between them. It's not really uncomfortable, just a little weird. As if now, after they tackled the big, glaring mountains of a topic first and they are out of the way, path cleared, they're both not sure what direction to take from here.

In the end, that's actually the thing that points the way for him, and so he winks at her and smiles, and then he asks, "So. You come here often?"

She laughs, and it's a soft pearl of a sound. He's fascinated by the way her face suddenly lights up. How, despite the grey in her hair and the crinkles around her eyes, she looks like a teenager all of a sudden. And he finds that he likes it when she smiles like that. (A lot.) Not just because she's gorgeous, but because it tugs at his heart a bit, and he hasn't felt that particular sensation in a long, long time.

*** *** ***

It turns out that she _is_ somewhat of a regular at Gio's, and the only reason they haven't met before is that she's usually here on Sundays while he hogs the Saturdays. She laughs again when they figure this out, and she says it's like something out of a bad romance novel. "Or movie," Tony grins, and she shakes her head.

"I'm not going to fall in love with you just because some writer wants me to," she protests. But that certain kind of smile still plays around the corners of her mouth while she says that, and her hand almost touches his on the table. He's pretty sure she doesn't even notice it. He does, though, and it's weird, but his fingers suddenly itch to reach just the tiniest bit further.

*** *** ***

She loosens her hair at some point, and a thick wave of salt-and-pepper curls falls around her shoulders. The gesture seems eerily familiar, and for a heartbeat it takes him back some thirty years. Back into a certain squad room. Back to her being all cocky and sarcastic and a stranger that seemed strangely familiar, even back then, while she was still busy mocking him.

There's no sarcasm in her eyes this time, though, and her expression is relaxed even while she purses her lips in an almost affectionate way. It's mildly disturbing how much he already likes it when she looks at him like that. He could get used to that. He almost wants to.

*** *** ***

Later that night, he would find himself wondering what they actually talked about for these long hours that seemed to fly by. And he wouldn't remember, just that it involved books at some point (about which he scoffed), and movies (which made her pull a face), and the theater (which confused him because she's not a movie fan, but she still loves actors on stage).

Later that night, he would also wonder what exactly made him stop and turn back to her after they had already said a reluctant goodbye. What exactly made him ask her if she'd like to come along and meet his girls, because one of them had just graduated into a full-fledged police officer and his oldest had proclaimed this the perfect opportunity for another family get-together. (Not that his family really needed an excuse to party. Every opportunity seemed pretty much perfect to them.) He'd idly ask himself why exactly he went into his best persuasion mode when Ziva hesitated visibly. Why he'd even go as far as admitting that his youngest had asked him in no uncertain terms to 'stop moping and bring home a new girlfriend' for a while now, because she'd always been a smart one who knew more about what was going on than the others. And yes, later he'd replay the exact moment in his head a few times when Ziva reluctantly agreed, and he'd find himself wondering why she had done that, considering they didn't have all that much in common, except for the fact that they seemed to like each other a little better this time around.

But even later, after the movie-like awkwardness of a noisy Italian family dinner and a complete stranger being stuck in the middle of it, he'd find that she barely made a ripple in their pond. That she fit right in. And then she would suddenly admit that she actually liked his daughters and their children, especially the youngest. (And he'd suspect that was because she was roughly the same age her own daughter would be now, but he wouldn't say anything about that, of course.)

He'd shock himself halfway through the night when he would try to kiss her on the porch of his daughter's house, because the urge had been building up inside him all evening and he couldn't fight it any longer. And because some part of him felt like they had wasted enough time already.

He would end up being all confused and nervous like a teenager when she, quite unexpectedly, kissed him back. He would, in all honesty, have no clue why she'd do that. But he would like it, and she'd feel good, leaning into him like that, and yeah, it would feel a bit like coming home. And he wouldn't mind getting used to that.

*** *** ***


End file.
